


Full Many A Glorious Morning I Have Sithed

by PastelWonder



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Emperor Kylo Ren, Established Relationship, F/M, Kylo Ren Angst, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Rey Needs A Hug, Slam Poetry, What in the Actual Fuck Pastel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 15:25:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15391746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelWonder/pseuds/PastelWonder
Summary: When you're the Supreme Leader of the First Order and The Last Great Sith, your gift to your beloved can be nothing less than... unique.





	Full Many A Glorious Morning I Have Sithed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inspirationalmisquotes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspirationalmisquotes/gifts).



> For InspirationalMisquotes. I was moved by AlbaStarGazer's characterization of Ben Solo in The Mating Service (hot alpha firefighter, check it out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14637444/chapters/33831306), particularly his flair for prose.
> 
> I adore a Darksider with a touch of theatrical whimsy (see my longer work, A Violent Heart), and thought - if Ben can spin a sonnet, why not my Kylo?
> 
> **cackles meanly** 
> 
> Rey, darling, I am truly so sorry.

“Rey. Of sun. Blinding-” he wrenches his cowl over his face, shielding his eyes from an imaginary flash of light. A screech follows his abrupt cut-off through the loudspeakers.

From her watchful position near the podium, Phasma’s jaw ticks once. Behind her, Hux winces.

An anxious wave undulates through the sea of troopers below the dais. They do not understand what is happening, and they are afraid.

At her husband’s side, Rey sighs. Her breath comes in a long, slow stream of warm air into winter.

She begs God, she begs the Force. She even begs the Darkness.

_Stop him. Somebody stop him. Before it’s too late._

Her prayers go unheard as her husband reaches his monstrous black hand towards the overcast sky.

“Beauty, like the sun – cruelty, like the moon. Beast. Of burden. Her womb.”

There is an aghast, “Good Lord,” from behind them, and she knows it to be the General’s. She imagines he’s clasping the top button of his uniform, leaning backwards in horror. She imagines clasping her hands around Kylo’s neck and squeezing until he’s dead.

Snow begins to drift down from the Heavens, a sure sign from what is holy for her husband to stop this charade. But of course – _of course_ – he sees the snow and is spurred onward, his enthusiasm increasing a thousand fold as condensation convinces him his malevolent whimsy has been sanctioned by the divine.

Goeth on, he does.

“Darkness rises,” his clenched fist trembles furiously at the snowfall, “Light-” he unfurls his fingers, a bizarre leather flower blooming, “Rises. To meet it? To de- _feat_ it? To de- _flowe_ r it? Black flower, laid at the feet of a gold-goddess throne-”

Her eyes rolls. She groans. _Force, take the wheel-_

“Embrace!” he roars, and startles her. He beats his breast with his fist, hard enough she hears the _thud_ of his strike and winces. “Bodies clashing. Minds ripping. Kisses tasting. Soft white petals hiding pink blush,” his two hands together open like spreading wings of a titanic moth. “Sweet nectar of the Gods…”

Behind them on their right, Phasma clears her throat. Rey hears her chrome armor creak as she shifts.

Tentatively, as if peering straight into the sun, Rey chances a sidelong glance up at her husband through her lashes.

She fully expects to see him swaying his arms skyward in rapture, or writhing in impassioned conniptions over the podium, or with his long fingers fanned over his face in overwrought agony not unlike his usual demeanor.

But instead, she finds he is looking at her. Intensely.

Small dots of wet cling to his long, dark lashes. They catch and hold the tiny flakes falling down from the sky like open hands. His scar, deep and ugly, is wrenched with emotion. His broad chest is heaving, breath buffeting hers in fast, shallow puffs. Though he has the same coloring as a wraith, his cheeks are flushed pink with cold.

“Little girl,” his voice booms out over the speakers. But standing here, next to him, it is ocean-deep, and soft. “Small girl. Perfect sun-summer girl. Gold thread stitched into black canvas. Dawn. She swells gold against the Dark.”

_Goddamnit._

Her throat pinches and she huffs. It’s a choked, choppy sound.

She is so _annoyed._

The snow is falling faster now. She doesn’t remember who turns first – him, in his Dark, histrionic glorying. Or her, in her weary, put-upon love.

But they’re facing each other as he murmurs, “I beg to kiss your Light with my Dark lips. And from them, the secrets of your shadowed heart will be known. Whole. I will make you. Supreme scavenger. As you make me. Home.”

Something tickles her cheek. It feels wet when his gloved thumb brushes it away.

That’s it. She hates him. Completely.

He steps back – it’s more like gliding though, in that ridiculous, menacing dress he calls a _surcoat_ – and reaches out his hand. “Come home.”

She sees her face in the lens of his lightless eyes as he whispers, not into the microphone on the podium, but into her, “Please.”

The blistering wind whistles in the empty space between them. It lifts and shuffles his hair.

She mouths, _You’re ridiculous_. And lays her hand inside his palm.

His fingers close around her. He drops to one knee.

Her head falls back.

“Force save me from this,” she groans.

But her heart murmurs, _May his reign endure forever._  

A gale howls harshly through the barren base as a confused silence settles over his finale.  

Ever the loyal guard dog, Captain Phasma snaps her fingers. The sound is like nails on a chrome board.

Kylo smirks.

His soldiers snap in time with their Captain, the choreographed click of a thousand metal beetles. An indulgent plague of appeasement.

He does not notice. He’s still looking at her, breath harsh, hand holding, heart waiting.

She sighs into the wind.

“I- thank you. That was- I really liked the part about my womb and the nectar of my vagina. It was very metaphysical. And disgusting. So again, thank you.”

His eyebrow arches. “You mean metaphorical.”

_Arrogant Sith._

“I mean,” she spits, “it was abominable. And stupid. And I- I... liked it. Sort of. A bit. Ok? Oh, shut up,” she snaps as he grins, all crooked teeth and adoring malice.

He is still, _still_ kneeling, so she tugs.

“Kylo, seriously, for the love of God and what is left of your authority _please. stand. up_.”

He does, unfolding into a black towering menace above her.

_Absolutely beautiful._

His arms are colder than the snow falling as he envelopes her in his Darkness. He’s so big he blocks out whatever light comes from the sky.

It is cold in his shadow. Achingly, exaltingly cold.

The side of his large, gloved finger tips up her chin.

Under the black chorus of continual, dutiful, fear-filled finger snaps, he murmurs like an insane man in love, “Happy birthday, beloved.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my longer work, more serious(ish) work, A Violent Heart, here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266785/chapters/32905572
> 
> Come frolic with me on Tumblr : https://royramsey.tumblr.com/
> 
> Your comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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